


The Mystery of the Missing Candy

by tortoisegirl



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoisegirl/pseuds/tortoisegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Candy is serious business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery of the Missing Candy

The dish is empty. Not just short a few candies skimmed off the top—that much he expected—it’s completely empty.

Dan looks into the bowl, dollar store plastic with a cheerful winter scene inked in blue tones along the inside edge. He lifts it and turns it in his hands, as if there were clues to be read in the plastic, imprinted during the crime to be discovered if he just looks at it the right way. His eyes are drawn up to the rest of the room.

The likely culprit is on the couch, paging through Dan’s latest copy of Newsweek and keeping up a running commentary of critical mumbles and huffs of derisive half-laughs- he’d only been in here alone for what, five minutes?

“Rorschach, did you eat the peppermints I bought earlier?”

“No.”

There are no incriminating wrappers within sight, but pilfered candy could just as easily be stored in trenchcoat pockets, upstairs with the mask and the rest of his uniform. He hadn’t heard a thing from the kitchen, not a creak from stairs or floorboards; but then again, Rorschach is known for his stealth. Would he really…? For candy?

He had put out the peppermints, right? Maybe he forgot and they’re still-

No, not going to let Rorschach instill this self doubt, let him string it out and play him like a violin. The bastard is going to admit this.

“They were right here, I know I put them out.”

“Don’t know what to tell you.” Not even bothering to look up, and if that’s not the most infuriating thing right now…

“Rorschach,” he grits out, jaw tight and voice thin, “those weren’t even for here. I was going to bring those to my birdwatching group’s Christmas thing tomorrow.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“Just because I don’t celebrate it with _you_ -” That gets him a look. A curious look, but he’s not going to be derailed that easily. “That’s not the point.”

The magazine is pressed closed, set aside careful as anything, eye contact and blank expression never broken. “I didn’t. Wouldn’t take your food without—” The stoicism finally falters as Dan raises an eyebrow. The slip seems to push him further away from contrition, though. His lip curls. “I didn’t take them,” he growls.

“Don’t lie to me, _Walter_.”

“Not lying, _Dreiberg_.”

The irritation is rolling off him in waves now; off Dan too, and a there’s a baleful air building in the space where the two fronts will inevitably meet.

Dan narrows his eyes, leans forward. His nose twitches. “You smell like peppermint.”

With that Rorschach’s up and off the couch, and Daniel has a sliver of a second to think _So this is what pushes him over the edge_ before there’s a hand clawed in the front of his shirt, another around the back of his head, and he’s being pulled down, down into that snarling face. Lips are pressed against his, work against him with an insistence that makes his own part in surprise. Then there’s a tongue against his and a breath puffed into his mouth, and his senses are hit with the fumes of a mouth that hasn’t seen a toothbrush in far too long, topped off with the rankness of a day’s gone meal.

Not minty at all.

Dan recoils, nostrils and tastebuds flaring under the onslaught. Rorschach releases him and retreats back to the couch as Dan sputters and scrubs at his lips with the back of his hand.

“Okay, okay. I get it.” He turns to hock and spit into the nearby trashbin, tries to flush the lingering foulness from his mouth. Reminds himself that it’s time for another go at introducing Rorschach to the world of oral hygiene. But Rorschach is smiling now, in his own small way that would likely be mistaken for a mere facial tic by anyone else. Dan keeps his hand on his mouth to hide his own budding smile. “Ugh. Your breath really is terrible.”

“Maybe you should buy me some peppermints.”

A laugh cuts through the air, and Rorschach just barely dodges the bowl chucked at his head.  



End file.
